


why do bad things happen to good people

by bettercrazythanboring



Category: Morning Glories
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 08:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1933815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettercrazythanboring/pseuds/bettercrazythanboring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale of how Hunter keeps getting caught in the same damn situation over and over (what is it, Groundhog Day?), and he should probably get some new friends. Or at least get rid of a few existing ones. Really, this is just ridiculous; you guys suck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	why do bad things happen to good people

All right,  _first of all_ , Hunter's not a pervert, okay? Let's all just repeat that a few times till it sinks in. He's  _not_. Really. He's never hit on a girl who didn't want him to. (He's never really hit on anyone  _period_ , but that's irrelevant.) He's never downloaded or watched porn. (Not on purpose, anyway. Unless the first season of  _Lost_  counts, in which case, yeah, he totally has.) He's accidentally bumped into people enough times that now his hands automatically fly away from that area where they might get him to second base. (No matter what Zoe says. Don't listen to Zoe.)

One time, he discovered a small crack in the wall to the girls' locker room—that looked suspiciously man-made—and totally told Mr. Mackey on it. (Which got him beat up every day for the next three weeks; until a new hole suspiciously appeared on the other side of the room.) He's, like, a virginal angel—that never watches over  _anyone_ —okay?

Now that that's out of the way,  _second of all_ , he is not the only one this happens to. (He may be the one it happens to  _most_  because of some sick twist of fate, but, again, irrelevant.) Just last week, Casey ducked into her room before a study session and arrived in his without so much as her favorite pen, looking as if she were about to puke for the whole next two hours. (And getting the words "affect" and "effect" mixed up in her essay; very unlike her.) A few weeks before then,  _Andres_  of all people greeted him by commenting on the impressive gluteal muscles of his roommate.

Hunter, silly, thought he meant Guillaume. (The guy spends more time shirtless than Taylor Lautner, and Hunter had to look up the word "gluteal", okay? Shut up.) Turns out Andres… did  _not_ mean Guillaume.

(And third of all, it's not even like They are the  _only_  culprits. At least that's what Hunter gathers from some the casual conversations overheard in the library from people he doesn't know. And also those two times he was witness to other strangers being very culprit-y. But  _They_  are no strangers, and everyone else is absolutely  _irrelevant_  to the story.)

He spills his soda on the hallway floor during his free period the first time it happens. Pretty much just dunks its whole contents on the ground when the liquid sprays his face. And, yeah, he theoretically knows it's not his job to clean it up, but old habits die hard and he's kind of never seen a janitor in this place—at least not one that specializes in removing coke stains rather than blood—so, naturally, he goes looking for the nearest mop. Did he mention he's just, like, a really nice, responsible person? Because that needs to be mentioned more. (And this is  _so_  not his fault.)

He happens upon a broom closet mere two minutes after beginning to open every door in sight—why the fuck doesn't the Academy label its doors?—and, congratulating himself for the good samaritan deed he's about to do, manages to tug up only the farthest corners of his mouth before realizing that someone else found it first.

 _Two_  someones.

They're (almost) fully clothed and facing away, so it's not like he's gonna be traumatized for life by the sight of their unmistakable shades of hair, but there's a rhythmic pounding and a distinct squelching sound, and a purple scarf hanging off the back closest to him, and  _oh god Jade and Ike are having sex right in front of him_  and he's  _watching_. What does he  _do_?  _Oh shit what does he do?_ Why isn't he backing away? Or at least yelling so that they know he's there and stop… this!

Or any of the other hundred reasonable things he wants to be doing right now?

Then one of them—Jade, probably—lets out a long, breathless moan that shocks him out of the shock, and by the time it's over, Hunter's already snapped the door shut and sprinted halfway down the hall. He forgets about the sugary wet floor that got him into this panicked haze and lands straight on his butt right as the bell rings, and ends up having to walk to his room through newly crowded halls looking like a diarrhea explosion, but, hey, it's still better than hanging around that closet for a moment longer. (He's pretty sure he caught the glimpse of a hickey in a place hickeys should not be made.)

And he was having such a nice day, too.

Oh, well. Time to bury that experience deep into his subconscious, right next to that time he saw Maggie's dead, warm body hit the ground, and that time Mom seemed perfectly aware he was…  _whatever_  he is. (Thanks for sharing, Mom.) At least he'll never have to see  _that_  again, right?

* * *

(Wrong. It's barely half a week later that he yanks open the door to his room because he and Ian just discovered that Akiko's awake and has been moved to a basement cell—which  _kind of_  takes precedence over wondering why there's a sock on the door handle; this prank makes no sense, who doesn't love free socks—and sees enough of Ike's dick to, first, never study at their room's desk ever  _ever_  again and, second, kind of want to trade places with Fortunato, who, by the way, is reportedly unrecognizable and until just three days ago occupied the cell Akiko's in now, and that is Bad News for Akiko; seriously, move over you guys, I'm not looking, but I gotta grab these important files as quick as possible, ew, ew,  _ew_ , we're having a stern discussion about this at the next roommate meeting, Ike.)

* * *

 "Is it weird that I kind of want to take bets about the next romantic surprise," Casey mutters without looking up from her book, but he knows from the way her fingers play with curls that she's not paying any attention to it. "'Cause if you'd asked me a month ago—"

"I know,  _right_?!" he supplies instantly, nearly managing to sound curious instead of disgusted. (But not quite.) The librarian shushes him, and he instantly snaps his mouth shut. (Morning Glories Academy and all. Probably best to obey the faculty on trifles.) "I probably would've nominated them for 'least likely to be in the same  _room_  together' after that screaming match last month. I was pretty sure she'd kill him next time she had the chance."

Casey looks up and grabs a handful of the gummy bears he holds out. "Oh, me too. She was fuming about it for days. But then, get this, this morning someone delivered a note while we were getting dressed and she snorted, like... three times while reading it," she says. "Out loud and everything. Had a grin plastered on her face till the end of second period; probably still does."

"If you think  _that's_  bad, you should've heard Ike while he was writing it," he says, shivering. "The guy cannot sing worth shit, but he belted out the entire— Actually, I'm not sure  _what_  it was, but it was long and creepy, and I was pretending to be asleep, so I couldn't even shut him up." Hunter doodles on the side of his notebook. Little clouds and trees, since that's all he ever learned. "He's being less annoying than usual, though," he adds. "I...  _guess_  that's good?"

"Yeah, like, I kind of want to stage an intervention, but I've barely ever seen Jade smile before…" She smoothes out her vest and shrugs. "Friends aren't supposed to let friends self destruct, but if they're happy—whatever that  _means_  here—who are we to deny them that?" Her curls bounce as she shakes her head and whispers, mostly to herself, "Being tolerant  _blows_  sometimes."

He thinks back on every TV show he's ever seen. "I dunno, I kinda think we should keep an eye on them."

Casey lets out a defeated hum. "I thought that was implied. Not too much eye, though," she adds with a smirk. "Mine are still sore from what I saw last week."

"Oh, that's a subject you  _definitely_  didn't just bring up and I won't acknowledge in any way, because I refuse to pretend it's a thing that's actually happening," he says immediately, glancing up at her. " _There is no sex in M-G-A_." He does his best to infuse his voice with the empty, hypnotic quality of the Dai Li man that made him forever distrust the police, and it actually manages to get a laugh out of her, which prompts him to add, "So. Least likely couples. Thoughts?"

"Hmm." She chews on her pencil for a good, long while. "Jerry and Marcy, maybe?"

"Wow," he sputters, then upturns hands at her grimace. "No, no, I mean, I'm not disagreeing— _obviously_ ; who would disagree with that? I was just thinking something a little closer to home, y'know. Like, uh… Jun and Guillaume?"

There's something in the way he knows she doesn't care about—or even particularly  _know_ —either of the boys, but her lips curl inwards in a frown and fingers twitch on the desk anyway. "That's still going on? That sucks."

"Yeah, between the antagonism and grieving, and possibly underlying UST—plus the weirdness with Ike... I'm just pretty much trying to be asleep as much as possible right now." He taps his pencil against the wood in periodic beats that probably mean something in Morse code. There's probably someone in the library right now fluent in Morse code. That someone's probably trying to decipher the nonsense right now. Statistics-wise. "Hey, speaking of roommates; anyone Pamela  _wouldn't_  be in a 'least likely' with?"

"The psycho nurse, probably," Casey says with a small snicker and idly flips a page. "Hmm, who else. Gribbs and Hodge?"

"Ooh, nice one. Irina and Ian."

"I'll take your word on that," she says, and he suddenly remembers that she still hasn't met either of them. (That's so weird.) "Daramount and  _anyone_." There's an edge to her voice. "You and Zoe, when she was still here?"

"Oh, well, you  _say_  that," he says, gesturing wildly, "but we were actually getting along  _pretty_  well, before, um… Before." He swallows the tiny knot in his throat, and caution along with it. "I'm kinda surprised you paired me up with her, to be honest," he says easily. "I always thought there was a much  _clearer_  choice for 'least likely with me.'"

The words come out in a half laugh and then hang heavy in his breath, and he regrets them the moment they're out. The dense air closes in around his throat at the sharp glint in her eye that's gone quicker than it appeared.

She squeezes her lips against each other and draws in a quick breath. "Hu—"

" _Hannah_ , yes—obviously. See? You  _do_  know me, after all." He gesticulates and bangs a fist soundlessly against the desk. "Yeah, 'cause we have…  _vastly_  differing opinions on the best season of  _Fringe_ , and also because she's gay and probably in love with Esi or something. That would… That would  _really_  be something if we ever got…" Something stings his throat as he manages a weak chuckle. "Okay, so, listen, I'm gonna go look up that Solomon thing and you, uh." His arms wave about before he drops them. "Yeah. Whatever."

Hunter gets up, limbs contradicting every movement in jerky, unsure motions, and bolts. Stupid, stupid,  _stupid_ ; Casey has enough things to worry about without him whining about not being able to kiss her at every whim. Things more  _important_ , like saving the world or figuring out what happened to her, or even taking care of Jade's unhealthy desires, and, god, it's not even like being friends with her doesn't rock, because it  _totally_  does, because she is  _amazing_ , and—

Basically, just. Stay away for, like, half an hour, Hunter; you've screwed it up enough already. Then pretend this never happened. Yeah. That sounds like a good plan. So… King Solomon?

He walks along the shelves, brushing fingers against the ancient volumes and wondering how much of the knowledge here is missing from Wikipedia articles or, generally, the head of anyone who's never been here. How much they keep hidden, how different the world might be if everyone knew what the faculty knew.

Andres told him to open himself to the disordered chaos of dreams, and so he does, granting errant glances on impulse in search of that elusive second poem and Julie Hayes. He's got all the time in the world and starts playing with the concept; distracted like that, it takes him longer than he'll ever admit to register that the latest turn he's taken in this labyrinth of a library landed him smack dab into another nightmare, one starring Jade and Ike.

"Are you fucking  _kidding?!_ "

Ike swivels his head around immediately and grimaces in confusion, though his lips never quite leave their comfortable spot on Jade's half-exposed breast— _thank god_  they haven't gotten further yet, but her shirt hangs open, and he now knows what color her bra is, and if Ike moves his head just  _half an inch_ , he'll see a lot more. (Don't you fucking dare move your head, Ike!)

"Okay, did you install some sort of lojack device on my dick, Hunter? Seriously."

Jade shoots him an apologetic grimace, but it doesn't really mean much coming from a mouth pink all over, littered with fresh, shallow bite marks. It does, however, help him regain enough sense to turn around—and blush all the way to his navel, probably—where he continues staring in horrified disbelief at the wall. "Why would I! Your dick getting stolen and never returned would benefit everyone  _here_!"

"Oh, then, pray tell, why are you snooping around here and keeping me from trying to give my dick to someone else as a nice gesture, if my having it  _bothers_  you so much?"

"I'm not sn— This the  _library_ , Jesus! And  _ew!_  I'm doing homework! This is disgusting!" His shoulders sag. "I just wanted Solomon; why is this happening to me…"

Sounds of rummaging reach him from behind, and muffled groan or two. "Here—" a book hits the back of his head and falls limply to the ground before he can catch it "—now kindly  _get out_  and spread the word."

"I— Fine! But this  _really_  needs to stop," Hunter mutters, and when he returns, pale and blank-faced, to his seat opposite Casey twenty minutes earlier than he'd planned, she wordlessly pushes the bag of gummy bears toward him, all awkwardness forgotten. (He eats the whole thing.)

* * *

 Fuck Ian. Just. Fuck him.

Actually, no, he doesn't even deserve that small pleasure. He needs to be painfully tickled to death or something. (Hunter once brushed a tiny fallen leaf off the guy's neck, and Ian made this sound that could most aptly be compared to a whinny, except it just got higher and louder as it went on, okay;  _Hunter knows he is very, very ticklish_.) That or be forced to listen to Ike singing Bohemian Rhapsody. He doesn't quite know which would be the worse punishment, but any and all are ones Ian deserves for spoiling  _A Dance With Dragons_  right there in front of everybody.

(It's not  _his fault_  that he lost his job—again—and that Dad doesn't believe in spending money on things that don't benefit Angela, and that a week before enrolling he had to make the decision between this and pre-ordering the  _Star Wars_  Blu-Ray collection on Amaz— And, hold on, to be perfectly fair, the book's not even  _out_  for another six weeks, and Ian hasn't been outside the Academy's walls in  _years_ , and Hunter should  _probably_  be impressed by the guy's skills or abilities, or whatever it is he used to get that information with, but instead he just kinda wants to punch Ian's teeth back into straightness.)

There's always pretending the little sniveling shitbaby lied. But… sigh. He totally didn't.

Hunter slumps against his door and cracks it open with slow, hazy movements, because on top of  _[spoilers redacted]_ , he also has a cold and a sore throat, and the Academy is probably pretty much the worst place in the world to get sick—outside of an uninhabited jungle without anyone familiar with medicinal and poisonous herbs. At least Jun and Guillaume are somewhere else, he reasons after glancing around the room. (This might be one of those days when his patience for their glares and underlying dysfunctional desire to bang might outweigh the allowances for grief; it's been getting kind of ridiculous lately.)

He crawls up into his bed, foot slipping on the bottom rung— _Jun!_  stop shaking sodas before opening them, jesus—and digs in the mess of five blankets and several loads of laundry, both dirty and clean, for the busted iPhone that he's long since stopped carrying on his person; what, listening to music in class is probably punishable by a sudden loss of hearing or something, and there's not much else it's good for around here. (Even  _Bejeweled_  no longer works, which is kinda weird.)

The cardigan he very nearly avoided vomiting on two hours ago joins the pile of clothes at the foot of his bed—which still has no mattress, hence the blankets—as he flips through his library and settles in for a nice, long, solitary, relaxing, and tons-of-other-adjectives-deserving nap to the tune of Foster the People.

He hadn't really meant to fall asleep; not only because he hasn't quite learned to control the dream walking and doesn't wanna see Ian's face anytime soon, but also because blasting mass murder anthems while his subconscious is wide open to everything would  _probably_  not be the brightest idea he's ever had. But he must've, because suddenly the vision of him telling Mom all the things he wanted to say so much more than fall asleep and listen to  _Irina_  of all people—it starts rocking and shaking, and he comes out of the dream just seconds before his earbud cords would've started choking him.

The tremors continue.

Is this an earthquake? Does whatever pocket dimension this is get earthquakes? (Would they even be earthquakes then? Or, like... marsquakes? Fuck, he doesn't even know if they're on a  _planet_ , let alone which.)

Battling the nausea rising up his throat and clueless as to when the music turned to shuffle mode, he takes one Young Blood playing earbud out, not quite sure whether to be alarmed. Moments later he yanks the other one out and jolts upright, offended  _beyond comprehension_.

Hunter grabs the wooden railing and leans over it fast enough that he'd probably fall out if his legs weren't weighed down by about three pairs of jeans—and a bag of pistachios; how'd that get in there?—to glare upside down at whomever's in the bottom bunk grunting like that. Her eyes were already half-open, so he only has to hang off his bed for two seconds to make his point before she yelps and shoves Ike away.

(Which is probably the worst thing she could've done at that very moment, because at least before then the most he could see was a bare back, but now the douche lands on the floor with a dull thud, and Jade's left lying flat on Jun's bed trying to haphazardly tug down her skirt and close her legs, seemingly having forgotten that her blouse is also undone and her bra is right next to Ike's knee along with her panties.)

"Hunter, what the fuck?" she squeaks out as he flies back into his blankets above, far away from the sight of semi-naked friends. (How many times has he seen Ike's schlong now?) (Too many.)

His face contorts into a disgusted grimace. "What the fuck,  _me?_  What the fuck,  _you?!_ "

"We locked the door this time! We thought we were alone!"

"Well,  _clearly_ , you weren't!" he yells down. "And even if you had been, this is— this is— unacceptable! Is  _nothing_  sacred?"

"Yes, because a bed in my own room is the  _absolute_  most offensive place for this," Ike drawls, but Hunter barely hears it because the douchebag has got to still be hard. He is hard  _right there_  a few feet down and he is talking to Hunter  _while hard_ , and acting like everything's fine and dandy WHILE THERE IS A BONER IN THE ROOM, and, okay, Hunter doesn't consider himself a prude, but lines must be drawn  _somewhere_.

(This is, like, a  _mile_  beyond "somewhere".)

"It's not even your bed, dude!" he finally manages, and then it dawns on him that he must have been in the same room, asleep, for the entire thing. The… the... foreplay and the roleplay and the whatever else they— Ew, ew,  _ew_ ; that's quite possibly worse than the mass murder as far as subconscious imagery goes. " _Please_  tell me you're putting clothes on and leaving, and pretending this was all my nightmare," he whimpers out, sitting cross-legged.

"Why?" Ike jumps upright, face level with the railing, and scares the ever-living shit out of Hunter. (But at least his fly's out of sight.) "Do you dream of Jade and me fucking often?" His expression blossoms into a smug smirk while he pulls his polo shirt back on. "Our naked,  _sweaty_  bodies joining together as one, putting drive A into slot B, leaving  _all manner_  of fluids on surfaces no one would ever suspect—"

"Ike, come on," Jade says at the same time as Hunter slaps him over the head.

"—covered in lube," he continues, "and our hips not lying to the tune of, what is this—" he grabs an abandoned earbud off the bed, grimacing instantly "— _Woman in Chains?_  Hunter, boy, I hate to break this to you, but you might consider investing in a therapist if that's your wet dream soundtrack."

Hunter repeatedly flicks the back of Ike's palm until he releases the cord back. "Says the guy having sex in Jun's bed; do you know what he'd  _do_  to you if he knew?"

"Says the guy so invisible we've been here for twenty minutes and literally had no idea you were even in the general vicinity."

 _Twenty._  Minutes. Twenty minutes of touching and kissing and squelching and dirty talking and— "Oh my god, I'm gonna throw up."

"You really  _should_  clean up in here," Ike continues, eyeing an empty  _Snickers_  wrapper stuffed between sheets. "Friends don't let friends be indistinguishable from a pile of boxers. Also, if cockroaches start checking into our hotel, you're the concierge," he declares.

For an answer, Hunter just lays a palm over Ike's face and shoves until he gets the message, at the same time as Jade says, from somewhere below, "Well then, I'm leaving."

"Wait, wait, wait—" Ike trails after her like a puppy, the other boy instantly forgotten. "Where do we continue this?"

She snorts as a babysitter might at a child wanting their third stick of cotton candy. "After that delicate and thoughtful description? You can go insert your drive into some other slot for a while. I hear your hand doesn't have anything else to do tonight," she offers.

"If you jerk off in this room in the next week, I will quite literally take these shirts and stuff them down your throat while you're sleeping," Hunter inserts, holding up one that hasn't been washed in a while.

Ike clutches a hand over his chest. "I'm touched my murder is important enough to sacrifice your 'it's smaller on the outside' shirt," he mutters before remembering that Jade's still leaving. "Hey, hey!" He manages to catch her wrist from halfway out the door and spin her around back to him, stopping her body an inch away. (Hunter's not entirely sure why he cranes his head to see them better.) "Fine, sure, me and my hand it is," Ike says without his usual bravado. "Whatever. Kiss me."

And she does, for some mysterious and probably gross reason; the simple, almost sweet sight turns Hunter's stomach more than the nudity ever did. (But then the moment she's gone, Ike disappears into the bathroom for seven minutes and everything's back to normal, so.)

* * *

 Don't tell anyone this, but Hunter's kind of developed a reputation for going to the toilet stalls on the end of the floor a lot. Like, a  _lot_. Like, several times a day for periods exceeding thirty minutes. And it's not what you think; his digestive system works perfectly.

It's just… he was an only child. And after his parents divorced, he spent a lot of time on his own, home alone. (Though he never had a kerfuffle with inexperienced burglars he could outwit. ...Okay, one time this kid from school snuck in to grab a carton of eggs for a prank a little ways down the street, but Hunter had boiled them the day before, and so Mr. Mackey ended up not only with a perfectly clean house, but also pre-cracked eggs on his lawn and an apologetic buddy for a pretty sweet lunch. Does that count?)

The point is, he's always been a boy of quiet. Of  _being_  quiet, of  _liking_  quiet, of  _living_  in quiet. This was supposed to be a really good school worth giving that up for, and it's preparation for the bustling adult life, and yadda yadda yadda, but all of a sudden he's gone from zero roommates to three, and from one other person living in his house to several hundred, and maybe nobody's ever told you, but teens out on their own are… pretty freakin' loud.

Sometimes he just wants to be alone again and to concentrate, and to read, so he goes to the bathroom on the far end of the hall and locks himself into a stall, and plops down on the closed lid with a book. (Other times he comes here for the intended purpose; it's pretty and spacious and relaxing, okay, get off his case.)

Today he got so immersed into  _The Little Prince_ , which he'd never read before, that it's been enough hours for his body to demand attention. He doesn't even put the book down—it's his fourth time reading about the sheep, and something about the truth appearing only once it's obscured makes him rethink the Academy—only tugs his pants down and wiggles his way back onto the seat.

(The book slips out of his fingers then, and upon picking it up, he finds it's opened to the narrator's final conversation with the prince. Reading him say his body, an abandoned shell, is too heavy to carry back home tugs the insides of Hunter's lungs up his throat at the memory of Zoe coming at him with the knife, of seeing her life shooting out of her and onto him. His eyes linger on that page as if in a trance, thoughts almost empty yet heavier than they've ever been, and it could've been another couple of hours before he remembers why his ass is bare.)

_You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important._

_It is only with the heart that one can see rightly;_ _what is essential is invisible to the eye._

They say his eyes are open; they say he should understand, now, why it is how it must be, what they're all fighting toward, the sacrifices which have been made. He only understands the corruption of everyone stuck here, the commonplace status of things once unthinkable. He only understands the aftermath of his experiences, when gossipping about friends and whining to them about having to participate in towerball leaves a stranger aftertaste than getting shot and knowing what intestines look like up close, and visiting the future.

He only understands that he is not the unbreakable, selfless, fearless hero he always hoped he'd be if a miracle happened and his life turned out to be the work of science fiction. (The loss of free will and being at the mercy of mediocre writers never mattered to him in the least; who's to say this God person Mom was always telling him about is some Fitzgerald anyway? Better infuse life with some fantasy and hope J.J. Abrams and Joss Whedon show up—and cancel each other's horrible parts out—as far as he's concerned.)

Well, he got what he wanted and should've been more careful about it, and now he's not even sure he wants to continue loving the genre, because living in it  _sucks_.

He doesn't understand the gradient of perception, that vibrant haze where dream morphs into dream and reality never quite makes itself apparent. He doesn't understand the warp of time, even the basic concept of a timeline not set in stone, with or without loops. He doesn't understand his math homework. He doesn't understand  _anything._

Hunter squeezes his eyes shut to the point of burning and drags nails over the side of his thigh solely to feel the sting and feel something other than this mystifying desolation, and that's when someone giggles.

Some part of him registered the moment the doors opened and someone else came in; it's not like he's got exclusive rights to this place, and it really happens too often to pay any attention to. The other students come and go, but pondering the futile, mechanic existence of the book's lamplighter always somehow seemed more captivating than keeping track of who washes their hands. So he writes it off and goes back to the book, looking for any more wisdom to extract. (And also trying to do his business. That too. His butt's getting pretty cold, actually; did someone open the window while he wasn't listening?)

It happens again, the giggle, a few minutes later—followed by a quiet, "Hush."

He perks up his ears this time instead of muting them, and now the sounds come to him—the thrum of water against a sink, a few birds chirping somewhere outside, the curtains fluttering in the wind, the squeak of sneakers against tile. And is that…?

If he didn't know any better, he'd say someone was practicing making out on their hand somewhere in the room. And because he is a glutton for punishment and always seeks answers which can only be written out in blood, he looks down, below the walls of his stall. Sure enough, two pairs of shoes grace his sight.

Well, whoever they are, they must know he's here, so surely nothing more than making out will happe—  _Oh_.

"Um, guys, you're not alone," is what he  _almost_  says when the heavier breathing starts. (Some of which borders on singing. You know the sighs that are really dense and arrive not straight from the throat, but travel up into the nose before finally coming out, and end up almost having a pitch? Yeah, it's those.) But the words cut off before he even opens his mouth, because he really has no way of knowing who is in there.

What if it's Pamela? People may  _say_  scars impress girls, but he'd rather not test that—if he survives the experience at all. (Plus, he's pretty sure Casey has too many of her own to consider them extraordinary. Oh, did he say "girls"? He meant Casey.) What if it's Irina? She shot him that one time. (Twice, actually.) What if it's Jun and Guillaume? That'd be  _beyond_  awkward. What if it's Tabitha and Carl? (Last week he overheard them threatening some kid who found out they were dating. The next day he saw the dude get carried down to the basement with an inhumanly bent leg.)

He  _probably_  shouldn't be mortally afraid of his classmates. On some level, he  _is_  aware that that's kind of fucked up. But then the rest of him argues that deliberately walking into these things is like tempting fate at this point, and admittedly this voice sounds very wise, so he's just gonna listen to that one.

(What if it's Casey with someone else? Like, he probably has no right to be jealous or anything, but he's kind of been operating under the understanding that they like each other—in a moderately  _like_  like way—and could be something other than friends, maybe, someday, when all this madness calms down. That it's less about not dating  _him_  and more about not dating  _anyone_. It'd be shitty to find out the rules have been changed, is all. Especially finding out in this  _particular_  way.)

Despite what Zoe may have said, he doesn't want to dramatically alter—or lose—his life today, not to mention that he can't fight off anyone in this vulnerable position, so he plugs his ears with fingers, stays as quiet as he can, and tries to concentrate on the prince's forty-three sunsets.

It works pretty well. For a couple of minutes. But then they get louder—still seemingly under the impression that they're being quiet—and faster, and Hunter has stage fright, and, man, this is  _so_  not a situation he ever thought to look up a youtube tutorial for. And he can't reveal himself now, 'cause he waited this long and they'll think he got off on it or something, and dammit, his life fucking  _sucks_.

He glances under the wall again, guided by some unknown impulse, and his mouth hangs open in a silent glare at the sight of the scarf on the floor. " _What the fuck?!_ "

The entire construction shakes as one of the sex monkeys crashes into it, and then there's a series of thumps and "ow"s before Jade says, " _Hunter?_ "

His head falls into his hands. " _...Yeah!_ "

"What are you doing here?!"

"I'm— I'm taking a shit; what do you  _think_  I'm doing?!" And isn't this just  _ridiculous_.

"Ew!"

"SAME!"

(He doesn't stop coming here to read tho. Just forces both Jade and Ike to make a blood oath to never come into that bathroom together ever again. In this place, that's gotta mean  _something_ , right?)

* * *

 The most horrifying things that have happened to Hunter ever:

5\. That dream where all the recordings of Star Wars in entire the world burned in a great fire and got wiped off hard drives by a malicious virus.

4\. The… six (?) separate times he's been  _almost_  run over by a truck. (If three's a pattern, then what is six? Evading inevitable fate?)

3\. The spider the size of his palm that crawled onto his covers while he was sleeping at age eight.

2\. Finding Jade in the library and having a full-fledged conversation with her for twenty-five minutes only to find out later that Ike was under the table the whole time. (Not making quips because his mouth was otherwise occupied.)

1\. Not telling Mom he loved her for four whole days before she died.

* * *

 (This one's actually on him. Morbid curiosity and all that. Never  _could_  turn it off, even at a murder school.)

He's trudging to the lab—or bunker, or whatever it is—and getting his shoelaces caught  _on_  and sometimes untied  _by_  random twigs on the barely discernible trail. It's this same ritual every Tuesday and Thursday evening, like clockwork, because for some reason it's Dangerous and Not Sneaky to appear right into the safe, warm, brightly lit room after falling asleep; come on, get your head out of your ass, Hunter. No, no, it's better to suddenly find yourself in some unfamiliar part of the woods—never the  _same_  part, mind you—about a mile away, and then take a fucking walk through mud and crunchy terrain that makes a lot of noise. (Did you know he can feel it in his legs after waking up? None of the muscle tone, no, but the pain, oh, the  _pain_  transcends dimensions—or whatever it is the rest of him travels across.)

So that's what he's doing. (Bless Esi for always getting there first because of her supreme navigational skills—she's some kind of state champion in orienteering, apparently—and sending up a flare so the rest of them at least know where to go.) He can see the lights peeking through the open door still a ways off by now, after what he strongly suspects was over two miles uphill; can almost  _taste_  the relief of sitting down and flipping through one of the new comics Ian smuggled in somehow. (He may be a dick, but does still have some uses.)

Then the sounds enter his range of hearing, and it takes him all of three seconds to step off the trail and into the deep, dark woods to go looking for horny-sounding teenagers.

And, no, it's not  _that_  kind of curiosity. Didn't we already establish he's not a pervert? There are a number of possibilities here, see.

He's noticed a few and been told about some others—kids who can visit this same place the AV Club call theirs. He doesn't know any of them, and the dream space is big enough that their paths rarely cross with other groups or individuals, and they've yet to come across a student fully aligning themselves with faculty even while awake, but it never hurts to be careful. You never know who might be listening or watching, or thinking, and the cost for this ignorance could turn out to be more than their wallets currently hold.

(That's the one he'll use five minutes later. He was just being cautious. A good team member. Give him a medal, will you, not a death glare.)

But it could also be—as he strongly suspects from the sounds—Jade and Ike adding some tree to the list of places that can never again be considered sacred, which would also be very important information. After all, he can't warn the others against the chaos that follows Ike everywhere the guy goes if he has no clue Ike will be  _coming_  here. He cannot talk strategy with Jade if he doesn't know she's capable of executing it. And most of all, he can't yell at the two of them for not telling him their eyes are open if he doesn't  _know_  their eyes are open.

(Well, sure, he  _could_ , but without solid proof Ike would just tell him to stop drinking the water the Academy's feeding them and that would be it.)

He rounds a corner, stepping around bushes with about three hundred percent more care than usual because, also, there's that small little detail of how if somebody is actually, legitimately capable of having sex in here while being fully conscious (for lack of a better term) and have it translate to the waking world, oxytocin-wise, then the world as we know it is officially a thing of the past and  _Inception_  makes more sense than math, and those complaining about how much time sex takes can just do it efficiently in their sleep?

(And maybe he could walk in on people taking naps instead of their clothes off from now on. Yeah. That'd be nice.)

A twig snaps under his sole and the sounds abruptly stop. Muttering a curse Mom would probably say some stern words about, he takes a few quick steps and leans to his side, peering around the nearest tree with the distinct sense that his chest should probably say its goodbyes to his heart—whether due to the erratic pumping that's gonna inevitably result in cardiac failure, or because it's probably gonna be ripped out from his ribcage soon by whomever's on the other side.

Sure enough, a face pops out of the dark quicker than The Flash could zip by and startles him into slipping butt-down to the ground, mud staining down half a pantsleg. Damn, he really needs to stop doing that. (And there was a patch of moss right a foot away; why couldn't he have landed in  _that_  instead of these sharp branches?)

"O-Oh, hey, guys, whatcha doin'?" he stammers out from below, one hand flying to his neck, the other scrambling to find a solid surface to prop himself up with. (Which waits until he's discovered a gathering of nettles to reveal itself.) "A secret club meeting to usurp Ian's authority? Heh..."

"What does it look like?" Hannah eyerolls—fully clothed, at least—one of her crutches hitting Hunter squarely in the shoulder. "I'm trying to make out with my girlfriend in the only place we don't have to hide knowing each other. Without a bunch of nerdy boys  _staring_ at us," she says with a pointed emphasis. The vague Esi-shape behind her sighs softly.

"Yeah, yeah, sure, carry on." He rights himself and rubs knuckles over his sore butt. "Uh, do you want us to wait for—"

"Ugh, go  _away_."

(Hours later, when he wakes and half-falls off his bed in search for a toothbrush—and maybe some Red Bull—Ike makes some quip about the brown stains all over the behind of his pajama pants and the red itchiness on his arm. After exactly five seconds of contemplating the implications of these real-world consequences—great, now there'll be no escape; there's  _no way_  dream sex isn't gonna be a thing once everyone else catches on—Hunter grabs a pillow off his bed and hurls it at the other boy's face in one level motion. "Shut up, dude, it's your fault anyway.")

* * *

 The funny thing about Lara Hodge is that despite how much the other students seem to trust and like her, no matter how suspicious Casey is—while still being in some mysterious cahoots with her—no matter how freaked out he was after finding out her family tree, Jade got her nightmare-vomit fix from her, and it  _worked_.

He was promised the same—or, well, roughly similar—two months ago now, and yet what does his watch say at this very moment? (And the approximate half-hour preceding it.) You guessed it, eight-thirteen.

Which would be cool and all, even fun... If the number had been eight-fifteen or eight-sixteen—or, hell, four-oh-eight—instead. And he could pretend he was about to win the lottery and have his life go to shit before accidentally embarking on a journey that will force him to be the most optimistic, hopeful, nice self he can be and make lifelong friends that way—no matter how short those lives turn out to be—that will make him remember what  _joy_  is again, and culminate into him finally finding a purpose in life by taking over a very important task that the world would be  _unimaginably_  different without—

Which, okay, he kind of still can, he guesses—at least the middle part—but then there's also that thing where their little group was supposed to meet up and gang up on Oliver Simon to get some answers out of him, and he missed it, and they failed, and now everyone's mad at him. So.

Where is this temporary cure and how soon can he get it?

He knocks lightly on the office's door without really expecting an answer, given what Casey's been saying and Hodge's reputation for being off-campus a lot, but the door's already just a tad open and, hey, now that he can read paper nothing was ever written on, it would only be fair he get to take a look at his own file, right? His life, after all. (And, all right, maybe a few other lives while he's at it. What; morbid curiosity, remember?)

Squaring his shoulders, he pulls on the handle and steps inside. And almost walks back out without a word when his eyes land on the bra-clad back of Jade, straddling Ike on the ugly orange couch below the large window. (He doesn't have the outrage or the yelling in him anymore.)

_Almost._

But, hey, he's kicked them out of pretty much everywhere else, hasn't he? And this office doesn't seem to be otherwise used these days. And orgasms, however fleeting, are probably a shining ray of sunshine in their lives. And he's in a murder school; got better things to worry about than obscene nudity, right? It just isn't as  _shocking_  as it used to be.

And, dammit, he really wants to know what's in his file. (And maybe Ike's, too, just to have blackmail fodder.)

He tiptoes past them and mentally recites what little he's memorized of the periodic table to drown out the sounds and the visuals and get to the desk. It takes several minutes of wading through clutter to find the damn file, and then his jaw slides open—even unhinging before he drops the papers in horror—and it ends up being one of those experiences he locks away deep inside his mind, never to be acknowledged again.

Ever, ever.

(Given that the other two don't ask him about it or give any reason to believe that they even noticed him in any way, Hunter gets to forget he was ever there at all. The memory stays a dream, less than a forgotten one, tucked into the thought folds that will never come loose, and the terror has absolutely nothing to do with the sex.)

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

People perceive their being, their consciousness as located somewhere near the eyes, right? Not in the middle of the head, not in the mouth, no, even if the eyes are closed, even if there's nothing to see in the overwhelming dark, it's always right behind vision. (Well, most of the time. He once read that people who were born blind don't even dream in images. And, weird as it may seem, there's not a single blind person in the entire school—except unavailable Fortunato—so he's had no one with hands-on experience to ask about this since becoming aware of it.) (Only mention the errant thought to Ike, who responded, characteristically, with something he's not even gonna repeat.)

Hunter's not thinking about that now, though. Most of him's a lot more fixated on how his consciousness, his very soul seems to lean left in this moment, right toward the spot of color and sensation and  _pleasure_  in the lobe of his ear where skin connects to Casey's teeth. He'd always thought they'd be so much sharper and hold so much venom to be released at will—because Casey is strong and Casey is powerful, and Casey is the very top of the food chain—but they nibble and awaken nerves he never knew he had with the same bluntness and warmth you'd expect from the beach water on a sunny day.

(What's left of him tries not to slacken his grip on her marvelous butt. Currently a lot farther up above than the bittersweet ache in his belly might wish, but then her chest is pressed right into his, separated by only one and a half layers of fabric, so he really can't complain.)

His lips turn in search for hers, roaming over her jaw, cheek, leaving sloppy kisses on the tip of her nose before she tugs her head upward and puts an end to his quest. All done, return to the king, tell him the dragon was slayed, he thinks as her hands roam under his T-shirt and claw spirals of life into his abdomen before tugging it up and breaking the kiss only long enough to get it off. (He should really invest in some casual dress shirts. They could probably come in handy at some point.)

He drags a palm over her side, and the other down the back of her thigh, and something about the sigh escaping her as she flips her sunny hair back without taking her hands off from dangerously close to his zipper… It ignites him, it awakens him, it stirs him up into feelings he'd never thought possible, let alone  _probable_  in relation to him, and in that moment he finally understands.

His lips trail down to her collarbone and below, to the bra half-unclasped by his hasty, clumsy fingers, and he understands as she pulls him up and straddles him, understands the fire and drive responsible for an abundance of inappropriate behavior in places both public and private.

Understands the anticipation, the promise, the loss of importance for anything but the person in his arms, understands it even when the door swings open and Ike struts in singing,  _"They saaaaay I'm superficial, some call me a biiiiiitch; they just mad 'cause I'm sexy, famous, and I'm riiiiiich,"_  at the top of his tone-deaf lungs and blasting the song loud enough on his iPod that even Hunter can hear the female voice.

Casey leans back and bites the soft, pliable lip his teeth were on just a second ago, and tucks one golden curl behind her ear with a questioning glance at him. He's mesmerized enough by the disarming gesture—and the blood rushing every which way inside his body—to barely register how Ike sings a whole verse about a shopping addiction before noticing them.

"Oh, hey, guys, what's up?" He takes an earbud out, once-overs them with an approving pout. "Nice rack, Case; knew you had it in you. Or… on you?" He frowns, index finger traveling to his lips while the girl gathers her blouse shut.

" _Dude_ ," Hunter stammers out with a nervous glance at her, "we're kinda  _busy_."

"Ah, yes, I can see that," Ike says, nodding thoughtfully, and plops down on Guillaume's bed. "Mind if I watch?"

" _What?_ " Casey hisses and climbs off Hunter's lap.

Ike's eyebrows raise innocently. "Oh, not for any personal purposes, I assure you; I just hate to miss the entertainment value of our resident klutz's first time," he says as if it were obvious. "If you're willing to make a video tape, I'm open to that, too, and there's no reception here, so I can't even post it online without your permission. Which I would  _never_  do," he adds with a clap to his heart. "In fact, I can lend you my phone; it has 1080p capabilities and—"

The other two simultaneously hurl armfuls of Hunter's laundry at him with barely a glance at each other beforehand.

"Fine, fine," he drawls and brushes a lingering sock off his shoulder, utterly unimpressed. "I know where I'm not wanted; keep your shenanigans to yourselves. I'll go find Jade and take my sexual frustrations out on her; I'm sure  _she'll_  be more receptive."

He walks back out the way he came in, right down to that fucking strut, but his ickiness— _ikeness_ —factor has already done its job, and that's the story of how he delayed Hunter losing his virginity by twenty-three whole days, and for the rest of his life, the boy's convinced Ike was listening outside his door the whole time, waiting for the perfect moment to arrive in all his mood-ruining glory and take revenge for all those other times that  _weren't Hunter's fault, how many times must he say that_.

Fucking shithead.

**Author's Note:**

> This is all Macey's fault.


End file.
